On the Other End of the Phone
by Doppler Effect
Summary: Not long after Sherlock's death, a dead body with a connection to the events surrounding the suicide is found. With two people from the homeless network keeping an eye out from the street and another potential victim to be found, John joins the investigation as he and Lestrade begin to realize not everything is as it seems.
1. Chapter 1

John glanced around the crime scene, searching the police officers' faces for someone he knew. They were in Westminster, and John was pretty sure he had never been to this part before. Curious passersby were held at bay by the crime scene tape and police cars. Strips of light illuminated the street, erratically flashing on and away as the mirrors in the police sirens turned. One such strip of light briefly cut across a tall figure nearby.

John turned and opened his mouth to ask Sherlock what they were doing there, like usual. The police officer - _no, not Sherlock_ - glanced at him strangely. John winced and nodded apologetically, and the police officer moved away.

Donovan's voice cut through the rest of the noises. "Doctor? Did Lestrade text you?"

He looked over his shoulder and saw her walking towards him. "Yes, I got a message about forty-five minutes ago. Said it was important, but nothing else. What happened?"

"Murder, clearly, but there's something interesting that was found near the body." She paused, as if debating how to put her next words. "It's related to...you know..."

"Sherlock."

The only signs of her discomfort were a brief tightening of skin between her eyebrows and at the corners of her mouth. "Yeah. Follow me."

She led him through the detectives and forensics officers. Anderson briefly glanced up as they passed and then averted his gaze. They went in through a side door to avoid most of the people and up a flight of stairs. Lestrade was waiting for them, holding an evidence bag in one hand. Everyone around him seemed to be moving faster than normal, eager to get away, as if tipped off by paranormal senses that something was wrong.

"John," he greeted tightly.

"Lestrade," the doctor returned. "I hope you remember it was just coincidence that he worked his deductions around me and that I had nothing to do with it, because I'm not going to be able to offer any."

"No, it wasn't just chance," Lestrade disagreed, "but I'm not asking you for a mind-blowing deduction.' He held up the evidence bag and removed a phone, his gloves preventing him from contaminating it. "We were looking for an identity for our victim and found a bit more than we expected." He flipped through the phone for a few seconds to get to a certain text message then held it out to John. The doctor pulled on a pair of forensics gloves from the table beside him before taking it. "Careful of the break on the case."

John tilted the phone slightly in his hand, seeing the large crack Lestrade was talking about. It had almost split the case apart, allowing one to see the motherboard. Surprisingly, it was still working fine. "Must have had some valuable information on it if someone didn't get this exchanged," he muttered before looking at the text.

**M**

**-SENT AUGUST 21-**

6:20AM. Subject to change.

same target?

Yes. Check on others after completed.

all good

ETA changed. He's delayed.

others informed

9:45AM.

saw it. telling others to pull back.

confirmed pull out from

**-SENT TWO DAYS AGO-**

Meet at third rendezvous point. Bring others.

n/a out of country

Tell them to meet there in two days. Same with you.

still want harrisburg out of picture?

Not anymore. This takes priority.

one target is leaving town, going to dover… follow?

No.

-.-.-

"Do you know what it means?" John said, passing the phone back to Lestrade.

"The first texts were sent on the morning of August 21, when Sherlock... Yeah. And 9:45 is fifteen minutes after it happened. A little too coincidental, don't you think, considering this man doesn't appear to exist from the records we've been searching through. The body's been here for twelve hours already because of some vehicular problem with the medical examiner, or so I'm told, so we've been searching for his identity since the very beginning."

"Do you know who he was talking to?"

"No."

"Seems like they were friendly enough..." John trailed off uncertainly. From Lestrade's expression, he was thinking the same thing. "...but you said there was only one body and it seems like it was only those two meeting here."

"Already checked for a third person, but we're not seeing any signs. It was probably whoever was texting him, this 'M' person."

A few moments of silence passed. John's gaze flickered between the two, sizing up how uncomfortable they were.

Donovan sighed. "We're looking into it being Moriarty."

John relaxed fractionally. "Thank you," he said genuinely. "What changed your mind?"

"I went to Dover two days ago," Lestrade said. "The timing is far too coincidental. Mycroft brought this case to my attention. Need I continue?"

John glanced at Donovan. "And you're going along with this?"

"Might as well. He won't listen if I say it's a bad idea."

"Mind accompanying us for this case?" Lestrade asked. "I can call your work place and explain the situation."

"Oh, I'm sure they're used to it by now," John said dryly. "Where's the body?"

Lestrade put the phone back in the evidence bag. "Upstairs. Cut-and-dry crime scene, really. Shot to the head, killed in an instant." He turned away to lead John to the room. "Of course," he added under his breath, "I say that and Sherlock will roll over in his grave over fourteen different things I missed, like potassium sulfate on the edge of the doorknob or something."

Despite himself, John gave a very small smile.

The crime scene was as emotionless as it always had been for John. He had seen enough dead bodies to know when to distance himself. Then Sherlock would step into the room and open his mouth, and it was like the victim was alive and talking, spilling out his or her secrets and telling them where he or she had just come from. It would have been incredible and exhilarating, but any care Sherlock would have given to the astonishing revival-of-the-dead would have quickly been disregarded.

That's how it had always been, currents of emotions running unchecked in a vast mind. While most people would only see the rivers at the very surface of normalcy, many of Sherlock's rivers ran underground, deep into uninvestigated caverns, where only certain people could tap into the depths of yearned for knowledge. Few people had ever realized how deep those rivers had flowed. Too many had merely observed the dry banks at the surface of his mind where the rampant emotions of most people usually coursed and dismissed him as an average person with a level of arrogance that had previously been unrecorded and social skills that ran drier than the Sahara.

"Did you find out who he was?" John asked, gaze on the body. "From other means beside the databases, I mean." Forensics was already in there, taking swabs and other samples. Were they really still working on this, even after so many hours?

"Still looking into it. So far, no idea. We did figure out that he's been staying in London for the last two weeks, though. See the bottom of his shoes? There're purple confetti bits from the carnival. The stuff got all over the five blocks near the carnival, so the city had it cleaned up as soon as they left. We're checking with the carnival now to find out if he worked with them, but I doubt it. Doesn't look the type to be giving toys or candy to kids."

John nodded in agreement. The medical examiner had the body lifted onto a gurney and they began to roll him out. Apparently, the ME van had finally arrived. John frowned and stepped forward. "Hold up a moment," he said. "Lestrade, can you look at his hand on the other side?"

"Yeah, sure." The detective inspector flipped it over. "Calluses. He's right handed, but so are most people."

John walked around to his side. "Yeah, but most people don't develop a need for glasses this late in life."

"What?"

"I caught a glimpse through his as he passed by. They're pretty weak, and most people's vision gets worse as time goes on." He held out a hand politely for the glasses. The ME glanced at Lestrade, who nodded his approval. John took the glasses from the ME as he passed them over and held them up to the light. "See? Weak."

"Okay, but what's that got to do with his hands?"

"Well, the only reason I thought to look at his glasses was because of the word choice in the texts. 'Target' and 'out of picture'. Look at _where_ the calluses are on his hand. Look a bit similar to yours after a long while at the shooting range, don't they?"

"He shot guns."

"And an awful lot of them, too, if the size of those calluses are anything to go by."

Lestrade put the hand down and waved the ME off. "I thought you said I _shouldn't_ be expecting brilliant deductions."

"Luck. It won't happen again."

"Right," Lestrade said in a tone of voice like he had already forgotten John's words. "Anything else you want to see?"

"No. It was probably a fast meeting, so I doubt there's anything else here. Witnesses?"

"Not really," Lestrade said as they walked towards the stairs. "There was a homeless man and some kid outside who said they saw a pair of people goes in at around ten this morning. They're still out there, but there's not much else they can tell us. Didn't get a good look at them from across the street." The police officer turned and continued down the stairs. "They don't know much. We're going to start again in the morning, if you want to show up at the Yard sometime around nine."

"Alright. Any superior officers going to come down on you for it this time?"

"Frankly, everyone feels bloody awful about it. He only caught a few of us for using him, so everyone's kind of giving leeway to the others if they didn't get chewed out. They're not going to care if you're helping with one case that had relevance to his death."

"Where are we going to start?"

"Harrisburg. We're going to find him. Maybe that can give us a better idea about who we're looking for."

They stepped out into the night air, leaving the crime scene behind. Lestrade would probably stay for a few more hours despite his statement that they would be continuing the investigation at nine that morning. It felt right to stay and help, but John wasn't going to be able to deliver anything new to him and he would probably just get in the way. Donovan would probably stay up the entire time with him, while Anderson would skate off as soon as he could. The rest of the police would come and go as their shifts ended or began, with wives or husbands calling and asking when they needed to reheat dinner or prepare breakfast. The homeless man was at least giving them something outside of the weariness of their bodies to focus on. A haunting but melancholy tune played in the air, similar to a melody John had heard before but not one that he could place to a name in his head.

John turned back and looked at the building. In the middle of the night, in a street empty except for the police, it felt like the first case with the pink suitcase as their only clue once more. The only difference was that there had been a tall man with a dramatic coat who should have been striding down the road, oblivious to everything around him as he searched for something, always searching, looking for the next piece of brilliance in his path.

But there was no tall man melting into the shadows as he tuned out the world around him in favor of the cacophony of his own mind, just the shadows as they had been before Sherlock Holmes and always would be without him.

* * *

The flat hadn't changed much since Sherlock had last left it. It wouldn't be the same without the mess, oddly enough. Mrs. Hudson had helped pack up some of it, but at a certain point, they had just decided to leave it. John stepped across the threshold and shut the door behind him carefully. He really didn't want to be here, but something was bothering him about the crime scene. That phone Lestrade had found looked too familiar. He had seen it before somewhere within the last year, he was sure of it.

That brought him here. John gingerly stepped over a pile of papers they had been halfway through cleaning up, trying not to disturb anything but also looking for where he might have seen the phone. Had it been in the flat? Or just somewhere they had been?

A quick look around did nothing but bring back other memories for him. The worst part was the stillness. There should have been some nervous aura to the flat, energy stretched like taunt piano strings across the rooms and through the hallways. Instead, the only movement was John, stepping around the room like something might move and snap at him.

He gave an impatient sigh through his nose and stopped. He was here to solve a murder, not reminisce.

If there ever had been a time to reminisce about Sherlock, though, it probably _would_ be at a crime scene…

Shaking the thought aside, he stepped forward with purpose to the stack of case files. He took the top one down and removed the lid. Any information about a phone would surely have been in relation to a case. The first box was set aside a few minutes later, replaced by the one that had been underneath it. He finished that one and stacked it on top of the first. The rest of the tower went similarly, with no success in anything except making him feel worse about having to root around through the flat. Frustrated, he went into the kitchen and turned the kettle on before moving on to the next stack.

Some of these cases he had never been involved in, whether because they hadn't lasted long enough for him to get home from work to learn about them or because he hadn't moved in with Sherlock to 221B. The first stack had been filled with unsolved cases, the ones that must have driven him nuts. Thankfully, he knew when to stop investigating or no one would have ever been able to sleep again while he hounded after an answer. He had only recognized two of those cases. This stack was more from his time period. Some of them, again, he had never been involved in simply because they had been over too quickly, but, reading Sherlock's version of the case files, some things began to make a lot more sense. He had always wondered why the dead canaries had kept showing up around the flat but had just decided to not even bother asking. Turned out, according to the papers in front of him, that they had been for testing carbon monoxide content in the air at a building in relation to a murder. Apparently those carbon monoxide detectors had been inferior for Sherlock's use.

John stood up and started taking down random boxes, trying to figure out the order to how they had been stacked. He and Mrs. Hudson had just started pulling them into the living room from miscellaneous places around the flat where they had been dwelling. They had both suggested to Sherlock when he was still alive to hear them that he could always put up shelves or invest in a storage space, but he had dismissed it as too much work and much more convenient to just have them laying around for easy access. "Easy access" apparently included the bottom of Sherlock's closet, the bathroom drawer, under the window curtains, and as a stepping stool to reach the top of the kitchen cupboards. Nevertheless, there had been some lined up somewhat neatly in his room and in a corner of the living room.

The three closest stacks to him were unsolved case files. That explained why they had been discarded in random places around the flat, at least. Two and a half, including the first one John had looked through, were mostly made up of cases before John. None of the other stacks seemed to have any unsolved. It was a little surprising that Sherlock had so many from such a short period of time that hadn't been solved before John, but he couldn't find any that were missing from John's time that hadn't been solved. The rest were organized by date with the earliest having come from Sherlock's room - probably because he never went in there - and the most recent having come from the living room.

John flipped through the old ones absently, knowing they weren't going to be relevant but interested anyway. Some of it was barely comprehensible because of Sherlock's barren writing style, telling the reader only the details and not explaining the whole or, many times, explaining what they meant together but then going on to explain how the case had been solved. It was almost like reading the surface of Sherlock's thoughts, only hearing what he didn't say out loud and not hearing him give the reason for his conclusions for what he did say. John paused briefly in his searching to collect his tea, and then again half an hour later to turn the hot water back on again, before continuing. As he moved to the newer cases, more of the details were explained out fully but the tone became more exasperated, like it was being written for an idiot and Sherlock didn't want to have to waste time doing it. Then the writing changed again, losing the exasperated tone but still explaining what the details meant all together.

It took him half an hour to realize it was exactly how it would have sounded if Sherlock had explained all of his cases in great detail to John.

The boiling kettle brought him out of his thoughts. He stood up and turned, but walked straight into a stack of boxes. He stumbled back with a grunt as the boxes toppled to the floor, breaking open and scattering all over the place. The kettle grew louder as it got hotter. John cursed under his breath and jumped over the boxes and papers to turn the kettle off in the kitchen.

The door opened a minute later as John was dipping the tea bag in the tea, eyeing the mess in the living room with annoyance. He glanced up as Mrs. Hudson walked in, bewildered expression on her face and clad in her night clothes.

"John? What on earth are you doing at this time of night?" she asked, more surprised than frustrated.

"Something came up in a case with Lestrade and I was looking into something. Sorry I made such a mess. I'll clean it up before I go."

"I'm just glad someone's actually looking through all those cases of his. It was sad to see them just sitting there. I can't seem to get this flat sold, so you might as well consider it a permanent residence for everything he owned. Mycroft's been making the payments, covering what you were paying too. It's really such a shame-"

"Mrs. Hudson?" John broke in, knowing he had to get a word in now or listen to her until she realized she needed to get back to sleep. "I do need to finish this..."

"Oh, of course, dear. What are you looking for anyway?"

He pulled the tea back out and set it in a dish. "It's this phone that was at the crime scene. I remember seeing it before but I can't remember where."

"What did it look like?"

"Had a crack running through the side, so large you could the inside of it. That's the only reason I remember seeing it."

Mrs. Hudson nodded thoughtfully as John started cleaning up the papers. "That's quite a coincidence. I remember seeing a similar phone on one of the workmen the day Sherlock... Well."

John stopped and looked up at her. "On one of the workmen... Yes!" He stood up, grin breaking out onto his face. "Yes, that _is_ where I saw it!"

She frowned. "But didn't this have to do with a case?"

John set the tea down so he could clean up the cases faster, excitement making him hasty. "Yes, but it's got something to do with Sherlock. The closer to home the phone was, the more likely it was connected."

"Don't worry about that, dear, I can clean it up," she said with a small smile. "You go on and tell the detective inspector."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!" He started out the door, leaving the tea on the floor. "Just leave the papers, actually, I'll be back to finish going through them," he called over his shoulder.

Mrs. Hudson's smile widened as he disappeared down the stairs. With a chuckle, she took the tea and dumped it down the sink. "Not the sitting down type anymore," she murmured to herself.

* * *

The taxi dropped him off a block from the crime scene. He paid the driver and ran the rest of the way. He slowed to a stop when he saw the lack of police cars on the street from before. There were only two left and the officers still there looked like they were just cleaning up. John grimaced. Lestrade had already left for the night, then. That was to be expected. It was four in the morning. It was a surprise there were still officers here at all, and they were probably only at the scene to make sure no one contaminated it.

A flash of movement caught his eye. The alley beside the building the crime scene was in wasn't entirely vacant. Someone turned their head both ways, looking to see if anyone saw them. The person stopped, staring at John. The soldier narrowed his eyes, leaning forward to give chase. The person bolted in the opposite direction and John took off after him.

A hand grabbed his wrist and yanked him backward. "No!" a low voice hissed at him. John whirled around, trying to tug his arm away. The homeless man held on, shaking his head insistently. His voice lightened slightly as he said, "He's got a car waiting around the other side. You're outnumbered if you go after him."

John stopped, staring at him. "Who are you?" The homeless man hesitantly let go, allowing his arm to drop back to the ground. The man must have been tall - he hadn't even had to stand to reach forward and grab hold of John even after he'd started forward. In fact, he had been rather conveniently placed and John swore he hadn't been there a moment ago... His eyes widened slightly. "You knew Sherlock, didn't you?"

The homeless man turned away slightly. His grey hair hid his old, age-lined face when he did so. "Many of us did," he said without sentimentality. His gaze flickered further away from John as they both saw someone move. A kid, maybe ten years old at the most, ran out from the shadows to stand beside the old man. He looked nervous, glancing between John and the man. The old man reached up with one hand and the child took it, calming somewhat.

John nodded slightly at the child in acknowledgement. The boy shyly nodded back. John looked back at the old man. "You're here because of him. This _is_ connected to him."

The homeless man sighed. "Yes. You and the detective inspector should stop looking into it."

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Right. Sure. Now tell me what you know."

"Why?"

"Because we're better equipped with more knowledge than less, and you're not just here to frolic around a crime scene."

"I'm getting paid quite a bit from the officers."

"And you just so happened to be paying enough attention to notice that there was a getaway car in the back."

The homeless man huffed in annoyance. "I didn't. He did." He tilted his head slightly towards the boy, who recoiled slightly at becoming the center of attention. "Don't worry about this. It's being taken care of."

"We can take care of it faster. Tell me what you know." John dropped down into a crouch to be at eye level with the man. The boy gripped the old man's hand tighter in uncertainty. John lowered his voice slightly, but spoke in a firmer tone and tried to ignore the discomfort of the boy. "It's been months and I still don't have an answer for what happened. I'm not waiting any longer."

"You won't have to, not when it's solved." The man's voice was becoming more hesitant.

"Lestrade and I are going to keep looking anyway. It's just a question about whether you're going to help or not."

"You'll just get in the way."

John stood up and started walking away. Behind him, the homeless man started looking between John and his destination. "Where are you going?"

"To get some answers," John said. "Obviously."

"After the man who's friends with the dead assassin?"

John stopped and looked at him. "So he was an assassin. That's a start."

"They're probably still waiting for you in case you tried to follow him."

"They must be wondering how I can run so slowly, then."

"You were his friend, so they expect you to follow. They want you dead, but they can't do it without provocation. That goes for Lestrade as well. If you keep investigating, you give them a reason."

John took a few steps back towards him. "Why can't they do it now?"

The homeless man looked away, lips tight.

"Well? I'm going to go ask that guy in a minute who just ran off. I don't have much time before he gets tired and leaves so you better start talking quickly."

"You're loose ends. I don't know more than that."

"How do you know that much to begin with?"

"Some of it's obvious. Some of it spreads through word of mouth. Some of it comes from sitting here and watching that man walk in about half an hour ago. I could see him moving around upstairs like he was looking for something."

"For what?"

"Evidence, pirate's treasure, a basket of flowers, I don't know," the homeless man said in annoyance.

John gave him a look. "Fine. Whatever. If Lestrade or I come back later, are you still going to be here?"

"Why?"

"We're going to keep looking and we're going to need information."

"You want me to be an informant."

"If you want to use that term, yeah."

"And if I don't want to be?"

"Then we get shot by the merry band of assassins, from how you're making it sound."

The man looked up at the dark sky irritably. "Fine." He started gathering what little he had brought with him to the site. "I'll send someone to be here if I can't make it."

"Why? Got somewhere to be?"

John got a reproachful look for that comment. "Yes, as a matter of fact. We don't use telepathy to get information."

"Lestrade and I aren't going to talk to anyone but you." He glanced at the boy briefly. He wasn't really comfortable with asking him to help, not when he was so young and so uncertain already. Besides, if the man hadn't specifically said already that he would have the boy there, then he was probably thinking the same thing.

The homeless man glared at him. "You're quickly becoming more trouble than you're worth."

"Hey, it's not like we're going to know whether someone here was sent by you or the other side."

"I'll always have someone here."

"They could get attacked and replaced."

"_I_ could also be attacked."

"Then beat them off with a flashlight, but if there's someone else here, we'll know not to trust them."

The man set his small bag of belongings back down. "Don't expect me to always be here."

"I won't."

"And don't mention me to anyone. Not even Lestrade." John opened his mouth but the man gave him a look. "You have your conditions, I have mine. Lestrade could give me away much easier than you could with a police report."

"Alright. I won't say who I got the information from."

"Good."

John started to walk away. The first few notes from the song began to break the still of the night air. John paused and they faded off as the musician waited expectantly. The soldier turned to face him. "The police said you were here when it happened. How did you know?"

The homeless man smirked dangerously. "The assassin was intending to meet Moriarty that night. That's not who was waiting for him."

"This other person, he's who you're getting your information from?"

"Some of it." He began to play again, eyes still glinting in amusement. John smiled in satisfaction, nodded at the musician as he began to play that half-recognizable tune again, and left to go find a cab.

* * *

Lestrade didn't look surprised to see John in his office at six in the morning instead of nine. John, in turn, wasn't surprised to see a slight tremble running through the detective inspector's body from a caffeine high and wearing the same clothes from last night. Neither of them had bothered to try and sleep last night. They were about the only ones in the office, with the rest of the detectives resting at home. A janitor was making his rounds in the bullpens.

"Got his name once I put your details into the search. Craig Flynn, used to be a sniper in the military but discharged under suspicion of the murder of a fellow comrade. They never were able to take him to court because of a technicality in how the investigation was handled, but there's no doubt he did it. He's around in the records for about four more years, and then he's gone for another seven. Nothing from him at all. He comes back for no more than nine hours two years ago, suspected of a double arson, but was released when it became clear someone else did it. He came back up in the investigation as an accomplice, but before they could arrest him as an accomplice, he was gone again. This is the next time he's shown up."

"Any sign of where he was?" John asked, sitting down across the desk from him.

"No, still looking. He was mostly in London, though. When Donovan gets in, I'll have her look into that." He stood up and grabbed his coat off the back of his chair. John rose with him, having not even bothered to take his off. "Meanwhile, I found Harrisburg."

"Busy night for you, huh?" John pushed open the door and held it as Lestrade walked out.

"He's in Calais."

"France? How'd you find him?"

"He's on vacation there. I wouldn't have found him except he was part of Flynn's old platoon and was the man arrested for arson. I sent a message to his hotel to warn him he might be in danger but I think we better get there quickly in case he tries to drop off the radar. Got two tickets booked for a ferry across the Channel, leaving at 7:30. Figured you'd be coming in soon, too."

John smiled as the elevator doors opened and they stepped in. "You know, he did say that you were one of the best on the force."

Lestrade blinked in surprise, and John reached across him to push the ground floor button. "An actual undisguised compliment from Sherlock? I don't know what to say."

"Well, from the pace at which you just uncovered two unknown men's identities, I think you can say it was pretty well deserved."

"Maybe." He glanced over at the ex-soldier. "What'd you spend your night doing?"

"I knew I'd seen that phone before, somewhere at Baker Street. Couldn't figure out where, so I started looking through the flat. I disturbed Mrs. Hudson's sleep, so she came up to see if everything was alright. I was frustrated, so I explained what I was looking for and asked if she'd remembered it, since it was so distinctive."

"And did she?"

"One of the workmen at her building had it the day Sherlock died."

Lestrade stared at him. "There's no way this is all a huge coincidence. This guy happens to be at her flat when it all happens? And someone related to all this goes to Dover at precisely the same time I do?"

"There was something else, too. One of the other two men they mentioned in the text message showed up. At least, I assume that was who it was."

"Where, at the crime scene?"

"Yeah. I went back to tell you about the phone and most of the police were gone. I was about to leave when I realized you weren't there when I saw someone going out of the back."

"Did you get a good look?"

"No, but someone told me he had been in there for about half an hour. He also told me that Flynn's an assassin, and his friends - including the guy who left the building - are looking for an excuse to kill us."

"Charming. Who said this?"

"Can't tell you, sorry. But he knew Sherlock and he's going to keep me informed."

"A lot of people knew Sherlock. More people than would be possible if he were faked."

"Yeah?" John said noncommittally. There had been too many times for him when he had entered a restaurant or gotten into a cab and had been told it was free of charge because Sherlock had solved some case for him and wasn't it just ridiculous what the papers were saying and had Sherlock ever mentioned him to John before?

"I'm telling you, we started a tally in the office about how many times we'll go to a crime scene and someone will tell us how ridiculous it was that we tried to arrest him. A few officers tried the whole 'Well, what do you know about him?' gig but everyone gave up on that when over half of them began giving out stories about how Sherlock had solved some case for their aunt or whatever."

John laughed as the elevator doors open and they stepped out. "I know the feeling."

* * *

Author note: I remember there being case files in the flat in one episode that were unexplained and most likely were not from Scotland Yard. In the original books, Sherlock Holmes did keep a written record of his cases in the flat and there's no reason for Sherlock to be remembering each individual case if it's not going to be important to a later case. Huzzah! There are now case files from Sherlock in 221B whether there originally were or not.

I wasn't going to post this, but I realized I only had a few weeks left to post an idea of mine about how he might come back before it was affected by the show, so I decided to just go with it. Second and last chapter is going to be up soon.


	2. Chapter 2

"I really don't think I'm in any danger," Harrisburg said nervously, watching John move uneasily around the room and Lestrade sit across from him with faked patience. They were in a French hotel room, the one Harrisburg had rented out. The ceiling was partially slanted from where it touched the roof and the room was barely large enough for all of them to fit comfortably because of the amount of space the bed and TV took up. "It's nice of you to come check, but I don't see it."

"Do you remember a Craig Flynn from the military? He was involved in the arson case you were arrested during," Lestrade said, passing over a photograph.

"Yeah, this is him," Harrisburg said with a laugh, leaning back. "Hah, bastard got what was coming to him. If he's dead, who's coming after me?"

"We're not entirely sure," Lestrade said, pulling an evidence bag out of his pocket. He took out the phone and pulled up the text he'd shown John earlier. "Marks you as a target."

Harrisburg stared at it for several seconds, frowning in thought. He glanced up at the two of them. "I don't get it."

"This man is an assassin. One of the people he works with is coming after you next."

"And what, you want to offer me protection?" Harrisburg snorted. "Right."

Lestrade sighed in exasperation. "Look-"

"Why do you _think_ we're here?" John asked, turning to face him with his arms crossed.

"I figure you're here to try and catch me for something else!" Harrisburg said, throwing his arms up. "I don't see any other reason you'd be here! That text doesn't even give a reason for them to not like me! Besides, that's not even his phone!"

John and Lestrade stared at him for a moment. "What do you mean," Lestrade asked, "that it's not his phone? It had his fingerprints all over it and it was at the scene."

"Doesn't mean it wasn't his phone. A friend of his had that phone. I got a call from Flynn a few months back after I got out of prison for the arson thing. Said the person who had gotten me out needed a ride. I said sure, whatever. Only he forgot to say that the person was going to need several rides. It would have been easier to get a freaking cab, trust me. I carted the guy all over London."

"Do you remember where?" Lestrade asked.

Harrisburg gave him a look. "Right, I'm going to tell you that."

"Well, you already told us that someone broke you out of prison, so it's a little late to be trying to protect them," John said dryly.

Harrisburg stared at him with his mouth open for several seconds. "You tricked me!"

Lestrade sighed softly and put his hand over his face as if that would make everything better.

"Well, he's certainly going to be coming after you now," John pointed out. "You might as well tell us where he was dropped off."

"Don't remember."

"Of course you do. He broke you out of prison. It'd be stupid of you to not think about where you were dropping him off."

"I..." They both looked at him for several seconds as he struggled for some coherent answer. "Look, I only sort of remember, alright? One was on Baker Street, but he didn't stay there long. We went to some place right across the street from Scotland Yard. It was on the west side of the building. Saw Flynn there. The last place was by some big grey building. I saw an ambulance go inside, so I think it was a hospital."

"There wasn't a sign or anything?" Lestrade asked.

"Hey, this was like the middle of the night, alright? Anyway, we went back to Baker Street again. He went in dressed like a workman and told me to meet him back there at a certain time a few hours later. I did - no, I don't remember when it was - and I picked him up. We drove to some park and picked up the guy from the hospital. That guy gave his phone to the guy I'd been driving around all morning. Said something about something maybe going wrong because of a delay in the texting. He was supposed to text the guy from the hospital about what messages he got. We dropped that guy off somewhere in the middle of town and then went back to Baker Street. I guess it'd been the guy's lunch break. He told me not to come back and went back in, and I never saw him again."

"Did they say why they needed you to drive them around?" Lestrade asked.

"No, but I thought about it a lot. Weird, huh?"

Lestrade glanced back at John to see if he knew. John started to shake his head, then paused. "Wait, so the phone was owned by the guy at the hospital?"

"Yeah."

"And he gave the phone to the guy at Baker Street?"

"That's what I said."

"How sure are you about all of this?"

"I'm positive."

"You still want that protection?" Lestrade asked.

Harrisburg shook his head with a snort. "It's not like I know anything."

"You mean, other than everything you just told us?" John asked dryly.

"Yeah, I mean, apart from all that."

He stared at them both as they looked at him in disbelief.

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah, of course."

They left.

BREAKBREAK

"Okay, he's going to end up dead," John muttered.

"Nothing to be done about it if he's refusing protection," Lestrade said as he sat down at the table across from John at the café in the first floor of the hotel. A waitress came and took their orders for drinks. "What do you think that was all about, pulling a guy out of prison just to have him drive them around?"

"They could kill him later," John said honestly. "That's my best guess. He'd be indebted for one favor, but it could be something important because he'd be gone later. He should have been killed, but whoever got a hold of the phone didn't know why Harrisburg was important so he had him saved in case he could be beneficial."

"That guy at the hospital, who gave his phone to Harrisburg's passenger," Lestrade said. "He must have known someone other than Moriarty had gotten a hold of the phone. He was probably pretty high on Moriarty's assassin list if he knew his habits that well."

"So he sent someone else in his stead to the rendezvous and stayed back to see if anyone showed up. He was looking for who the person was, if not Moriarty."

"He's going to have to come here next." Lestrade turned toward the doors of the hotel. "He's going to have to guess that Moriarty still wanted the guy dead if not-Moriarty said to leave him alive."

"How exactly are you planning on knowing who's here to kill him?" John asked, following his gaze to the door.

Lestrade shrugged. "I was going to go up to anyone who isn't staying here but is entering the building."

"Should probably go talk to the clerk if you want to do that," John pointed out. Lestrade started to stand as his phone rang. "Go ahead and get that. I'll talk to him." John stood up and walked over to the front desk as Lestrade answered.

"Donovan?"

_"Planning on coming into work today, sir?"_

"I was in there this morning. I found Harrisburg and just had a talk with him. We're looking for someone right now, but I'll fill you in on what happened when we get back."

_"The doctor's with you?"_

"Yeah."

_"How's he holding up?"_

Lestrade glanced over at where John was talking to the woman behind the desk. "I think he's doing better now that he has something to do and isn't just waiting for an answer on what happened."

_"I got the instructions you left. Flynn showed up several times in between his long disappearances under aliases. There's so many, the only way to connect him to all of them is by what he was involved in. He's never had trouble with the law, except for what you already found, but he has shown up in several cases. Mostly murders."_

"I'm not surprised. John found something through a contact. The guy's an assassin."

_"Some things make more sense now with that."_

The waitress returned with both of their orders. He smiled and nodded his head in thanks before turning back to his conversation. "Anything else?"

_"No. It'd be easier if I weren't the only one looking."_

"I wouldn't be so suspicious of everyone if the murder involved were anyone's but Sherlock. Except John's. I think I'd be more suspicious then."

_"Really?"_

"I don't think anyone would be able to get past the many people around John. And I have this disturbing feeling that if anything happened to John the earth would shift and open up to swallow whoever went after John just because Sherlock's dead body willed it."

Several moments of silence passed on the other end. _"I could see that happening,"_ she said slowly.

"Alright, that's it from me. I'll give you more later if I learn anything else." Donovan gave a noncommittal sound and Lestrade hung up. John sat down a moment later. "Flynn was involved in several murders."

"Anything concrete?"

"No."

"Not surprising." He eyed Lestrade as the detective inspector raised the cup to his lips. "Seriously?"

Lestrade paused. "What?"

"What do you think the chances are that's poisoned?"

Lestrade set the cup down a little too hard and hot liquid splashed over the rim. "You couldn't have said that a little sooner?"

"Just saying that Harrisburg's assassin could already be here," John muttered, trying to suppress a smile. "There's supposed to be a plumber coming in, but they said they really don't want a murder in one of their rooms so you can talk to him if you like."

"How considerate of them," Lestrade said dryly. "What do you think the chances are that we're still going to miss this guy entirely?"

"Pretty high?"

Lestrade stood up. "Come on, let's go try and convince him again."

"Lestrade, he's not going to go for it," John said, barely moving. "Look, if we stay down here, not only will we not get shot by the assassin who's going to go after him, but we'll also be able to bring the fight to our own territory. Once he's dead, the assassin is going to come after us since we obviously already spoke to him and are sitting down here. We can return to London and we'll have the advantage. Well, as much of an advantage as we're going to get."

Lestrade stared at him for a few moments before sitting back down irritably. "I always hated it when Sherlock said something like that because he was always right."

"It was much easier when he was here to make that kind of call for the rest of us," John agreed quietly.

"Someone just walked out the door," Lestrade said suddenly, getting to his feet again. John turned around and saw the front doors swing shut. "I never saw him walk in."

"Maybe he was just staying here...?"

"No, he was dressed like a plumber, like the one who hasn't arrived yet."

John jumped out of his chair and ran after Lestrade out the door. "Check on Harrisburg!" he yelled over his shoulder at the clerk. The man looked confused, but there wasn't time to elaborate. Lestrade was chasing after the 'plumber', who took a sudden turn into an alley. John ran harder, intent on catching up to the detective inspector.

A loud rumble came from the alley. Lestrade started to turn into it, but John grabbed the back of his jacket and hauled him backwards. John steadied them both against the wall as Lestrade's weight and surprise almost took them both to the ground. A van shot out of the alley, brushing past them and riding the curb on the other side of the street for a moment before straightening itself out.

They both stood there, breathing harder for a few moments.

"Let's get back to London," Lestrade said, getting his breath back.

"There was something at the crime scene, something that the assassin went back for." John inhaled deeply, recovering faster than the older man. "Let's go find out what."

BREAKBREAK

Donovan was waiting for them outside the building in the rain. They stepped out of the police car and went inside with her, using their hands to shade their eyes from the rain. There were only two other officers in the area, both of them sitting in their cars to stay dry while they kept an eye on the crime scene. John cast a few glances around surreptitiously, trying to look for the street musician without making it obvious. The vagabond was nowhere to be seen, but the boy was standing in the shadows of a street lamp, curiously watching them. He ducked away when he noticed John's gaze on him.

Donovan took out a key and unlocked the door to let them in. Several lights were lit in the building as they went inside to illuminate it in the dark light cast by the clouded sky and lack of windows. "What's this about?" Donovan asked as they finished garbing themselves in the forensics outfits and started up the stairs.

"Harrisburg's dead," Lestrade said. "We were downstairs and started to chase the killer in the street but he got away. John's got a contact who said someone was up here last night looking around. We're going to see if we can't find what he was looking for."

"Contact?" Donovan glanced over her shoulder at John, who was bringing up the rear.

"Someone Sherlock knew. I persuaded him to help out," John said.

"Speaking of which, have you been able to talk to him recently?" Lestrade called back from the front.

"No, haven't had the time. Once we're done here I might see if I can find him. He's rather picky for some reason."

"I'm not surprised," Donovan said dryly. "Anything that had to do with Sherlock always became more difficult to deal with as soon as it spent enough time around him."

Lestrade thought about reprimanding her for the comment, considering the dead man's friend was right behind her and still in mourning, but put it off for the moment. "_I_didn't become more difficult, did I?"

"Yes, you did."

"I did not!"

John snickered quietly.

"Hey, I didn't!"

"Don't feel bad. John did too, and I didn't even know him before he met Sherlock."

"I probably did get worse," John admitted as Lestrade tried to make some sort of protest. They reached the landing and started to enter the room where the body had been found.

"No, don't you back her up on this!"

"Sorry. ...It's true, though."

"No, it's-! Well, maybe for you, but not me!" Donovan and John both opened their mouths to say something. "Just be quiet, alright? If we're so much more insufferable, maybe he rubbed off on us, right? Think we'll notice whatever he would've noticed?"

"No," the other two said simultaneously.

Lestrade scowled. "Start looking around anyway and try and think like him."

"Oh, God," Donovan muttered, gaze moving to the floor as she started to circle the edge of the room.

"Sorry, Lestrade, I don't have a USB port connected to my brain," John said.

"Use WiFi then. Transfer his files over into your head or whatever."

"I don't have a password for that, I don't think." He pointed at the ceiling for Lestrade to look up there.

Lestrade eyed it. "Are you serious?"

"Hey, better look everywhere and you're the tallest of the three of us."

"Fine, fine. Still, there's got to be some password into his files or something, right?"

"I can't believe we're actually discussing this," Donovan muttered. She opened a box that had already been thoroughly searched through earlier and moved some of the contents around absently to see if anything had changed.

"Look, desperate times call for desperate measures." John crouched down and looked at the underside of a table. He ran the fingers of one hand along the underside, searching for anything out of the ordinary.

"We're beyond desperate measures if we're talking about hacking Sherlock's dead brain."

"You're right. He probably has viruses set up in there so that as soon as someone tried, their own hard drive would shut down."

"That's not what I was saying," she said, trying to bite back a laugh.

"Close enough, I'm sure."

"You know, I always did feel like my brain was exploding while talking to him," Lestrade noted, standing on a table and moving a loose wooden board aside above his head. "Think that's why? I was getting too close to hacking?"

"Probably. You never know."

"Does anyone else find it the least bit strange that we're looking at the ceiling, floor, and random objects for trap doors or something? 'Cause I swear that's what we're doing and I'm pretty sure none of us walked in here intending to do that." Lestrade glanced down from where he had both arms up to his elbows through the ceiling hole he had made, searching for anything with his hands that might be in reach.

Donovan eyed him. "Finding anything up there?"

"A lot of dust bunnies."

John came out from under the table. "That's the thing, you see. You said 'try and think like him', so we all did, and now we're doing the weirdest searching methods we could ever think of him because that's exactly what he would've done. The only difference is that with him, it would've worked and he wouldn't have looked nearly as stupid while doing it."

"I knew there was a reason I thought I had seen someone doing something like this before!"

Donovan blew out a breath and stopped looking for hidden catches in the wood underneath the box. "Do you think we're actually going to be able to find something, searching like this?"

"Well-"

"Oh my God." Lestrade's muffled voice came from the ceiling. They both looked at him.

"...Are you serious?" Donovan deadpanned.

"Yes."

"You really climbed halfway through the ceiling?"

"Yes, well, no." Realizing the contradiction, his tone became annoyed. "Hold on a second."

"What?" John stood up and walked over so he stood next to the table Lestrade was on.

"No, as in that's not what I was talking about originally, but yes as in I did climb halfway through the ceiling, and yes I did actually find something."

"You better come down," John said hesitantly.

"Let me just pull this out."

"Lestrade, I don't think that's going to support your weight." The ceiling started to give an ominous creak. "Yeah, that's what I was talking about. Down you come."

The detective inspector came back out of the hole, something long and thin tangled in his fingers. A shower of dust rained down on him and he pinched his nose to try and stop himself from sneezing. Donovan and John moved away until the dust had stopped falling. "What do you think it is?" The detective inspector used his gloved fingers to start carefully wiping away the dust.

"Looks like something long and thin," Donovan said helpfully.

"Yeah, got that, thanks."

"I'd say string, but it's too wide."

"Feels more reedy."

"Reedy?"

"Yeah. I'll get forensics to analyze it once we're done here." He put it into an evidence bag and tucked that into his pocket. "Alright-"

The crash of a trash can hitting the ground startled all three of them. Without pausing for consideration, they ran out the door and down the stairs. A door in the back swung open and the lights in that part of the building abruptly went out. Lestrade gestured sharply and the three of them split onto opposite sides of the last lit room. Donovan went back on the stairs to get a good angle on whoever walked through while the other two went by the doorway.

Several long moments of silence passed. A floorboard creaked, but the sound was too long for them to tell whether it was the shifting of someone's weight or just the age of the house sounding. "Police," Lestrade finally called out. "Identify yourself!"

The rest of the lights went out.

John slowly lowered himself, trying not to give himself away with the rustle of fabric but also trying not to stay in the exact same place as he had been before the lights went out. Lestrade was moving slowly towards the staircase to Donovan, who seemed to be going back up the stairs if the creaking was anything to go by. They were trying to get a better vantage point and limit the number of directions someone could come at them from. John didn't have that option, so they were probably expecting him to go out through the front door, which would give him a chance to alert the two officers out front to the problem if they hadn't already heard the commotion, or wait until someone passed by before trying to take them out.

Several minutes of silence passed. The house creaked enough times on its own that it made it almost impossible to tell if or when someone was moving. He didn't think Lestrade and Donovan were going anywhere, though. Not only did it not sound like it, but there wasn't any reason for them to retreat further. No one was going to be stupid enough to go through the doorway he was guarding since they knew there had to be eyes on it, so they were going to go around through the other side. The way things were going, they were probably taking out the officers out front while they were waiting.

It'd be a lot easier if the lights were on.

So of course, then the lights flashed on and momentarily blinded him.

John turned his head away reflexively with a grimace before looking up. As he had suspected, Lestrade and Donovan were both on the stairs and were pointing their guns at a man at the base of the stairs, who was pointing two guns at them in return. John rose, pulling out his own gun from his waistband in the direction of the man. Before he could speak, he heard a rustle from the opposite side of the doorway and glanced over. Using the wall between him and the room John was in as cover from the detectives on the stairway, another man had his gun pointed at John.

"There are officers out front," Lestrade said firmly. "They're already calling for back up."

"Their spiked coffee kicked in a little too quickly for that," the man by the stairway said.

"You're the workman from Baker Street," John said. The man glanced over at him with his eyes briefly before turning his attention back to the other two. "Why'd you give your phone to Flynn?"

"Doesn't matter." He didn't turn his gaze this time.

"Oh, don't stop there," the man behind the wall said with a cold note to his voice."What phone?"

"Don't remember."

"By any chance, might it be the one I gave you?"

"I don't-"

"How interesting."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows and glanced at John. The ex-soldier made a sound of acknowledgement in the back of his throat. "Let me guess. You knew whoever showed up at the rendezvous was going to die," he said to the one pointing the gun at him, then added to the one pointing the guns at Lestrade and Donovan, "and you knew it too, so you gave the phone to Flynn and said it was under this other guy's orders."

"Trustworthy bunch, huh?" Lestrade said.

"Aren't they?"

"Pass over whatever you found in the ceiling," the assassin by the wall said. "We saw you pull it out, so don't lie and say you don't know what I'm talking about."

"Why bother? You've got enough reasons to shoot us anyway," John pointed out dryly.

"It's not a convenient spot for them," Lestrade said. "We left their trail too clear, so if an investigation starts up once we're dead, they're going to be caught pretty quickly. However, if we disappear, it's going to be that much easier to vanish for them. Are you thinking the Thames? Because dropping a body off in a dumpster would be found this afternoon, while the river might drop our bodies off hours later."

"There are other methods of disposition," the workman/assassin said.

"Great, we've got creative assassins," John muttered. "Just the way I wanted to go out."

"Your inside man, who was he?" the assassin by the wall asked.

"We didn't have one," Lestrade said slowly. "You don't know who the guy was who got the one upstairs?"

"Don't pretend-"

"You seriously don't know?" John interrupted, frowning. "We were going to ask you." A few seconds passed. "Hold on, if it wasn't one of Moriarty's people who turned against him, and it wasn't a plant from Scotland Yard, how did someone get his phone...?"

The assassin made a frustrated sound. "The other Holmes. Damn it."

John shook his head. "No, he wouldn't have gotten there fast enough. Think. If Mycroft had been involved enough to get his people there before the police showed up - which was a three minute response time, if I remember correctly - he could've gotten there fast enough to save his brother."

"Then who could've...?" Donovan said, trailing off in uncertainty.

"Yeah, let's just discuss the case with the two assassins, shall we?" Lestrade muttered.

John shrugged. "Well, they're clearly going to shoot us anyway-"

"Doesn't have to be a shooting," Donovan interrupted. "We already established that they're creative."

"Yeah. And I really want to know who did it."

"Even if it means telling them, too?"

"Whoever did it is probably smart enough to be avoiding them. Maybe he even has a tap on the police phones. I don't know. Anyway, it's his problem, not ours." John paused. He blinked, looking between the two assassins for a moment. "Alright, I kind of see where Sherlock was coming from on the 'not caring' thing in these situations. It really _doesn't_help."

"If it helps, Detective Inspector, although I really don't care if it does or not," the assassin behind the wall said, "I'm not too interested in discussing it with you either."

"You're not interested in figuring it out?" John asked nonchalantly.

"I am, just not with you. He has evaded us temporarily. You didn't."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," he said in the same tone with a hint of mischief. Lestrade frowned. Had he figured it out?

The assassin rolled his eyes. "Well, doctor, dazzle us with your brilliance. If you think we missed something, feel free to say check-"

Click. "Mate."

John smirked and the assassin sighed, glancing to his side at the vagabond, who was holding a gun a few feet away from him. They boy must have told him something was going on. "I should've known something was wrong when I didn't hear you playing that wretched music in the streets. You worked for Holmes, didn't you?"

"Of course."

Lestrade and Donovan both shot John confused looks, unable to see what was going on. The workman/assassin turned, something about the voice surprising him. Lestrade jumped down the last of the steps, tackling the man to the ground. He wrestled the gun away from him and Donovan came down the rest of the stairs to handcuff him. John turned his gun on the assassin by the wall as Lestrade left Donovan with the other man to handcuff the second one.

"Sebastian Moran," the musician said, a slight smirk beginning to quirk up the edges of one mouth as he addressed the man in front of him, and then glanced across the room, "and Petrov Valinsky. Two assassins under Moriarty. Congratulations, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade held onto the wrist of one of Moran's handcuffed hands and glanced at the him. "Yeah, thanks, who are you?"

"You'll see me again, no need to worry about trying to find me later for the court case," he said dismissively.

John walked over to Valinsky as Moran was led away. "The crap that was printed about Sherlock. Do you have evidence it wasn't true?"

"And if I do?" Valinsky said from the ground.

"I know someone who can keep you safe from Moran. He didn't look too happy that you were the reason we caught on to the two of you."

Valinsky stayed quiet for a moment. "What about Holmes? Will you keep me safe from him, too?"

John nodded, a smile starting to appear on his face. "Yeah, him, too."

Donovan shook her head as she helped Valinsky up from the ground. "Mycroft Holmes really makes a lot of enemies, doesn't he?"

"I'm not sure that's who he was talking about."

Donovan looked at him strangely before leading Valinsky out the front. John spared a glance towards the musician before walking out after her. He waited on the steps until the man came out beside him. They watched as Moran and Valinsky were put into separate cars and the officers who had been knocked out were revived. Several more police cars showed up, alerted by some unknown person apparently. Lestrade, John, and Donovan found the time to get out of the blue crime scene suits. The latter and another officer drove the two assassins away and the scene was once more swept for evidence. Meanwhile, the boy from earlier watched the proceedings from an alley for a few minutes before running across the street and whispering something in the old man's ear. The man nodded and the boy ran off again, back to the shadows of London.

"At least they already taped that off," John muttered to his companion.

"They'll find reasons to complain about it anyway, knowing this lot."

"What, not a decent one among them?"

"There's a few with potential." He sniffed with disdain. "The rest, I can't say much about."

John smirked and then looked up as Lestrade walked over. "Can I see that object you found in the attic again?"

"Yeah, sure." The officer pulled it out and handed it over, glancing at the musician as he did so.

The musician paid him no heed, looking at the item in the bag. "I wondered where that went," he murmured. "Did you drag it through a heap of ash?" he added a moment later as he got a better look at it, annoyed. Before either of them could stop him, he plucked the bag from John's hands and opened it. He pulled out the string-like object and started carefully cleaning it off.

"That's yours?"

"Yes, it's a violin string," the musician snapped. "Obviously."

"What was it doing in there?" Lestrade asked.

"I went in to see who was going to show up in response to the texts sent to Moran's phone from Moriarty."

"Wait, so you knew the man who sent the texts?" Lestrade stood up a little straighter, more interested now.

The musician pulled a phone out of his pocket and shook it before replacing it in its secure place. "I did."

Lestrade blinked. "But," John said, "I'm sure any trouble caused by that detail would be wiped off the records by a certain government official, so let's just forget about it."

Lestrade sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Alright, I'm going to need a statement from both of you, obviously. Sometime today would be nice, while it's still fresh. John, I know where to get you at, but I'm not so sure about you," he said to the musician. "Is there somewhere you usually stay or can I take the statement now?"

The musician gave him the haughty look of one who has just been asked a ridiculous question. "Lestrade, I'm sure you can figure that mystery out for yourself without my help." He turned to John. "Lunch?"

"It's closer to dinner now."

"Whichever. You're going to have to pay, seeing as how my account has been suspended for obvious reasons."

"Right." John inclined his head towards Lestrade. "We'll get you those statements later."

Lestrade's brow furrowed in confusion and he started to ask something about them knowing each other, but they both turned and walked off the doorstep too quickly, almost in a practiced motion or something they had done many times before. He watched them leave, certain he had just missed something. As he did, he saw them exchange a few casual remarks as the taller man ran a hand over his head, removing a grey wig and dropping it on the ground, then took out a cloth and wiped it over his face. It was dirtied when he pocketed it once more, and Lestrade caught a flash of pale skin as he partially turned toward John again.

The pair ducked under the police tape. A sergeant glanced over, about to ask them something. His eyes widened and he dropped the clipboard he was holding. The taller man laughed and John grinned at the reaction but they made no further mention towards it as they walked over to where the violin case had been left on the side of the street. Sherlock picked it up and turned towards John.

"Come on, then," Lestrade could almost see the ex-soldier saying. "It's time you got fed." They started walking again towards one of the main roads. "By the way, I trashed the flat."

"Oh, did you now?"

"Mrs. Hudson wasn't upset."

"Really? She always got furious when I did it..."

Lestrade groaned and looked up at the sky.

The intermission from the antics of a detective and his blogger was over.

* * *

a/n: I'm American, so I haven't seen the first episode of season three yet! Don't spoil it any reviews, and keep in mind that I don't know what really happened! I meant to get this up sooner, but it just didn't happen because I kind of forgot I had separated it out from one chapter and into two.


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